


Not So Safe

by Leah_Hansen



Series: Summertime Steam [1]
Category: Happy Tree Friends
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah_Hansen/pseuds/Leah_Hansen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hot summer day turns into a sexy fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Safe

Not So Safe

* * *

 

 _It’s too hot_ _outside to do anything,_ Flaky thinks to herself quietly as she drums her fingers against the hot bricks. Summertime in her little town is boring, but safe. Safe, and boring. Like her. She is safe ( _safe-n: not likely to cause or lead to harm or injury; not involving danger or risk_ ) unless she’s cooking or playing outside or doing anything besides sitting.

Her thin arms and legs are easily burnt, magnets for splinters and scrapes, permanently covered in Band-Aids and Neosporin. She’s perpetually sunburnt so she stays indoors most days, watering her plants, attempting to cook without burning her hands, and reading. It gets boring; rinse and repeat.

The only time it _really_ gets interesting in this wasteland of a town is when Flippy has one of his freak-outs. Then things get interesting, in a gory kind of way.

The people here in Happy Tree Town can’t exactly die; it’s something in the water they say or _it’s just the way it is_ the parents whisper to their frightened children.

That’s how it’s been for as long as anyone can remember: dying, slowly or quickly or unintentionally or purposefully and then waking up on the ground, sharp twigs and stones poking their skin, completely unharmed again.

Dying is essential ( _essential-adj: absolutely necessary; indispensable_ ); it is a part of life here in Happy Tree Town.

Flaky wraps her arms around her knees, frowning.

It’s been several long, hot weeks since she last died (after Giggles accidentally hit her with a car), so she’s due to die sometime soon.

She runs her spidery fingers through her unruly hair, watching the dandruff coat the ground. In the gaps between her fingers there is green, green grass.

Green and red like a Christmas tree, tinsel and holly berries.

Flippy and Flaky, standing side by side.

She blinks in surprise, startled at her thought process; Flippy hasn’t come near her in the entirety of those long weeks.

Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen him at _all_. Flaky lifts her head a few inches, scanning the deserted street. Down near the intersection, Giggles and Petunia are heading down to the pool, big, floppy hats covering their hair and wearing matching bathing suits.

The redhead glances across the street at Flippy’s house.

The windows are dark and cold; the front lawn is dying; and there’s a pile of newspapers on his driveway. Weeds eat away at the mailbox post. Maybe he’s out of town.

Down the street, a car slams on the breaks, and Petunia screams out in agony as the metal crunches against bone.

Flaky shudders and quickly stands.

The front door of Flippy’s house is ajar, so she heads over, looking both ways three times before crossing the street. No sense in her getting hurt when Petunia down the road is dying, her bones broken in the wrong places, Giggles crying hysterically.

It’s always the same; the people here never get used to the weird no-dying thing.

The grass tickles her ankles as she wades through it.

“Flippy?” Her voice is tiny and meek in the dark house, and it echoes around her, sounding just as scared as it had coming out of her mouth. There’s no answer, so she pushes open the door wider. Light floods the dusty foyer, illuminating the dust.

Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen him all week.

Flaky checks all the downstairs rooms, the TV room, the bathroom, the closet, the garage, the kitchen, but he’s nowhere. Steeling herself, she carefully heads up the stairs and checks the first two rooms; there’s a bathroom and a guest room.

Down the hall, something thumps loud enough to make her hair stand on end. Goosebumps break out across her arms and legs.

On the way down the hall, she bumps into the little table and knocks the lamp off. It shatters on the floor of the foyer.

The thumping gets louder.

The main bathroom is empty too and so are the three other rooms (a den, a craft room, and a sun room) so that leaves the furthest door, a dark oaky one. _Flippy’s_ bedroom.

Flaky swallows hard and forces herself closer and closer. Her feet drag.

The thumping is loud and continuous, steady like a heart beating, but deeper. The door rattles with every thump. _Is someone banging on it?_

“H-hello?” When she hears how small her voice sounds, she cringes. Not very threatening, more like a little kitten’s meow.

“Flaky? Is that you?” The banging stops. Flippy. It’s Flippy’s voice.

She nearly cries as she rushes the last few feet and finds the key on top of the door; she unlocks it.

The door swings open, and there he is, but he doesn’t look _right_. His hair isn’t usually spiky and messy, he doesn’t have those purple bags under his eyes, and his eyes aren’t…gold.

All the breath in her lungs rush out, and he smiles, showing off his teeth in a grin, and lunges at her, knocking the key out of her hand. She screams, but his hand covers her mouth, smothering her voice.

They roll, her legs kicking feebly, trying to knock him off, but he’s heavy, painfully so; it’s a losing battle. He hits her, right across the face, and something in his hand cracks. When she starts crying, he sits up, all his weight pressed down into her pelvis. It hurts.

“Now,” he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, but there’s still Flippy’s quiet tone underneath it all, “be quiet.” His eyes are gleaming, little gold beads, animal eyes. He’s dangerous, his lips peeled away from his teeth, grinning maliciously.

Flaky tries to swallow the sobs that are building up inside her throat, but a few escape. His hands are shackles against her shoulder, nails digging in, drawing blood. She grinds her teeth to keep more sobs inside her mouth.

“Now, now, be a good little girl,” he says, smirking; his lower lip catches on his canines.

Christ, she can’t see anything passed her tears. He leans down, and all she can see is his spiky hair; something hot and wet touches her face, swiping a little path from the bottom of her eyes to the tops of her cheekbones. She stills, heart pounding in her chest. 

He laughs, and it vibrates against her skin. Even if he’s gone right now, in that little world that the war created for him, he’s still Flippy (at least physically, to an extent) and she still has stupid feelings for him. When he lifts his head, there are still some of her tears on his mouth and his tongue darts out, ridiculously suave and sexual, and catches them slowly, teasing her.

“Very good. I love this, seeing you here.” He reaches down and adjusts himself, biting his lip in a way that drives Flaky crazy. With the smug look on his face, though, he knows it turns her on and her face flames at the idea of him just _knowing_ that her panties are soaked and she’s groaned his name into his pillow since she was old enough to start masturbating and that it’s always been him in her dreams, mainly as Flipqy, who’d fuck her like an animal, slap her ass red and pull her hair, making her gasp and shiver in delight and cum so many times that her cunt would be a mess of juices.

She squirms, and tries to cross her legs, so he can’t notice how wet she is, soaking the crotch of her jeans, but he picks up her head and whispers in her ear, slow and gravelly, “I’m gonna fucking cum all over you. Fuck, you’ve got me so hard, Flaky.” He’s staring at her with hot eyes, one hand pinning hers above her head, and the other one fumbling with his zipper. “Shit, baby, gonna explode. Mm.”

She feels like her face is magma, burning brightly.

“I-I—” she sputters as his thumb and pointer closes around the tab of his fly. There’s a standstill, his eyes on hers, and then he’s ripping the fly down, moaning softly. She’s bucking, desperate, and manages to slide on hand free. Shoving his hands out of the way, she presses her tiny hands against his clothed cock and feels its girth and length and heat and fuck, it makes her clit throb so hard that it’s painful. “Fuck me,” she squeaks and lies flat on her back, shoving her jeans and wet panties to her ankles in one smooth motion. 

He just gapes at her, his gold eyes wide with his cock sticking out of his shorts like a moron, his eyes glued to the mass of damp, red curls covering her cunt.

She blushes when she realizes he may not like girls who don’t shave, but then he’s scrambling closer, on all fours, his mouth hitting her everywhere—her stomach, her hips, thighs, the backs of her knees—and she knows he wants her, shaved or not, with her kind of chunky thighs and tiny breasts, and he doesn’t care if she’s not perfect.

He sits up on his knees and rips off his shorts, and she sucks in a breath, looking at his cock. It’s a few shades darker than the rest of him, and fat, with thick veins that throbbed and pulsed, and long, close to touching his lean stomach. It juts out of a thick strip of dark green curls, shaved into that formation. “See something you like?” he asks in his gravelly voice and she nods and slips out of her sweater, giggling at his reaction to her breasts.

She knows they’re tiny and swell, with pale pink nipples and freckles, and she likes to pinch them, tug on them until it hurts.

“Fuck,” he bursts out and knocks her flat on her back, pushing her legs apart with his knees as he bumps the tip of his cock against her, wet and sticky and hot.

“Oh! That feels so _good_ , Fliqpy,” she moans, arching her back, and he stops rutting against her, staring at her with this look of surprise.

“That’s _my_ name, not his,” he says, and she looks away, embarrassed; maybe he won’t want to fuck her now that he knows she wants _him_ , too.

A sudden thrust that slams his cock full hilt inside of her makes her moan low in her throat, too startled and dazed to do much else, and then he’s kissing her, his sharp teeth digging into her lips just hard enough to be pleasurable, his hands squeezing her hips, and his dick is inside her, thick and hard and hot and so, so different than a toy and he’s technically her first (if you don’t count her many, many BOBs). She wraps her arms around his neck and whispers, her voice broken with lust, “Fuck me, Fliqpy. Fuck me.” She squeezes her cunt to emphasize her point and feels him breath heavily against her, stilling, and then he’s fucking her, bouncing her on his dick so fast that she can hardly breath between his thrusts; he’s on his knees and she’s bouncing, her clit rubbing against his skin, and his mouth is on her tits, sucking her nipples like a babe, and his hands are kneading her ass, and she feels like a good, sweaty whore.

His balls slap against her with every thrust, making her wetter, and she moans when he wraps his fingers around her hair, pulling her head back so she can watch him fuck her in the reflection of the mirror across the hall, in his room.

She looks so dirty and filthy, her skin splotchy with a feverish flush and her body red from where he’d struck her and bitten her, and she watches in amazement at her tits bouncing, her cunt dripping hot juices down her thighs, her glazed expression; Fliqpy’s behind her, never once stuttering in his thrusting, pistoning in and out of her like a professional fucking machine, his cock huge and silky inside of her, his eyes never leaving her as he whispers dirty things—s _uch a fucking whore for loving getting fucked like this, you bitch; I’m gonna cum inside your hot little cunt_ and _hope it makes a baby, honey; fuck I’ve wanted you like this for so fucking long; do you have any idea how many times I’ve fucked a toy into oblivion when I really wanted to fuck your cute little pussy?_ —and hot damn if it doesn’t make her hotter.

She reaches between her legs and pinches her clit, feeling her cunt gush down her thighs, and he moans.

“Gonna cum,” he snarls and then he _really_ hammers her, fucking her so hard she gets rug burn on her knees and tits but it hurts so good, really good, and she doesn’t want it to stop and she rocks back against him like a cat in heat. “Cum for me,” he yells and yanks her head back, and she frantically rubs her clit, panting as she struggles to get there.

A few more thrusts and he’s cumming, spewing his load all over her stinging ass and she really wishes he’d had cum inside of her, and then _she’s_ cumming, her toes curling and he’s in front of her, shoving his cock down her throat to muffle her shrill screams as the heat inside of her cunt explodes and she’s left shaking and sobbing and tasting salty dick. Once her orgasm dies down, he backs off, and wraps his arms around her, and slaps her ass.

“Mine,” he says, in a very caveman way, and her heart flutters.

Summertime isn’t very boring anymore, and she certainly isn’t safe anymore.

_(Danger: n. describing a situation or person that is not healthy for another or could result in injury.)_

 


End file.
